


Temporal

by AlltheB7



Series: Interstitial [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26335492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlltheB7/pseuds/AlltheB7
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Luna Lovegood
Series: Interstitial [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1913692
Kudos: 13





	Temporal

Dark hair, musty and unkempt, falls over her like an eclipse in the bright room. She can't move; another curse is binding her limbs. Her throat is dry, her eyes leaking. She knows there's raucous laughter, can see it on almost everyone's faces, but can't feel it anymore. The light hurts her eyes when the woman gets up and the light is shining on her face. She's dragged back down.

Darkness. Pain is muted into corners of her mind. Silvery hair around a pale face. Humming in the darkness, unknown lyrics and songs. She never asks questions. She comes over to hold her gently. Or be close. Or be silent. 

* * *

Weak light filters into the room. Words glide over her, some in accented English, French, other. It's Fleur. Always the same face bent down, shadowed as she blocks the light. Kind eyes. Kind hands. [Do you want to talk?] Opening her mouth, nothing comes out. The words are not there.

The brand hurts. It heals. 

They have to go; they can't stay. They're alive and healed enough and they have to finish what they've started. Harry and Ron are grim, but then again, the sharp edges have etched fine lines into all of them. 

They say their goodbyes at the seaside home. A gentle wind is blowing the silver and blonde hair of the people who stay.

* * *

There is still so much to do. Hogwarts and the survivors are in pieces. Brown black grey angry gashes in the ground, in the stone, in them. Conjuring spells, she wills new stone into the crags, resods the lawns, reseals protective spells. The brand itches and she scratches at her arm. Exhaustion pulls her into bed at night, but there is a loud silence. Her eyes tally the cracks on the post of her bed. Tired as she is, sleep eludes her.

She takes a couple days' trip to the muggle part of London and sits in the underground, listening to the cacophony; it's mechanical vibrations bumping and familiar in the hollows of her chest. It helps.

Someone jostles her on the bench and she startles from her dozing nap with a silent cry, hand with wand out and arcing. A few people glance over, the person next to her on the bench with a confused wary stare, [sorry, mate]. She shoves the wand back into its hidden pocket and goes to department store to get a newer muggle iPod before heading back. 

She spells the battery of the iPod and plugs in the sound of everything, of anything, into her ears. The tinny scrape of exhaustion fades into a dullness as sleep finally comes. 

She is happy, yes. Harry and Ron are off to the Auror program. She's back at Hogwarts to graduate. Life is back on track.

But under the clean lines, even the stone of Hogwarts is being willed into form, forced into shape. 

Certain corridors have a dank moldy odor - she walks around them. Except for potions. She's chastising herself for dallying at the top of the stairs at the end of the week when she picks up the scent of parchment and cardamom. There are no spectrospecs, but the hair is messily knotted at the top with a chopstick stuck through it. Big eyes, much more focused than from the past, rest lightly on her face. With a sigh, messy hair bobs ahead and descends. Nose to the scent, huffing away a laugh, she follows. [The nose knows].

By the end of the next week, they have an unspoken routine of meeting at the top of the stairs. There are at least 6 different types of chopsticks. She's noticed since this started.

At the room of requirement, she walks in to find empty sheets of paper, canvas, inks, and pencils. There's an open window with the sound of passing trains rolling in the distance.

She picks up a pen. The scratch of the lines against the paper is scraping against the hollow scars in her chest. Its resonant frequency centers her mind and emotions. She's never been great at drawing, but the friction lets her fingers move without thinking, her eyes focus on something that's solid and real and broken.

Weekdays doing research at the ministry used to feel more rewarding, but now seem so empty. The assignments used to be so engaging, but now she can barely focus. Weekends are spent with Ron, Ginny, and Harry when possible, sometimes the Burrow, but the silence climbs its way back in. Ginny is out for the rest of the hot summer season; the championship is in the next few weeks. 

She quits in the middle of her shift. Gets up from the research desk and hands the notice to her flabbergasted supervisor. 

* * *

Hot humid air presses down and she's wandering back to her flat. The door opens and her shoes cuff over the creaky wooden floor. There's canvases everywhere - the hallway, the living room, kitchen. Sketches and inks and paints of windows everywhere. Occasional sketches of chopsticks and sandscapes with varying skies mute the grey skies into gritty browns.

She sends an owl and waits at the kitchen table, teacup in hand, Crookshanks in her lap. 

A couple days later, an owl drifts back in to the kitchen. She feeds it a hide biscuit from the jar kept on the windowsill and it fluffs, chirruping happily. Reading the parchment on return, she packs a backpack and apparates with the big orange ball.

* * *

It's raining despite the patch of blue ahead of her and she thanks her past self for weaving a moisture-wicking spell into the fabric of her backpack to keep water off of her bag and packed supplies. About 20 yards away, there's the house. Crookshanks mrows, irritated at the watery intrusion, and jumps, slinking away to find shelter. 

The water is soaking into the fabric of her clothes and hair. It's something she hasn't felt in a long time and something about it feels right, so she stays there until she can feel all of her clothes heavy against her skin. She feels less hollow like this. Or maybe it's that she doesn't mind the emptiness when there's so much pressing against her.

A distant voice sounds close to her and she opens her eyes to realize that she's no longer alone. A breath leaves her lips - she had been holding it. 

"Summer rain is a good deterrent for nargles." Her eyes are still big like she remembers from graduation, and still more focused. And her voice, still slightly breathy, but smoother and lower. When did they become women? 

A frown of a smile and Hermione reaches out, fingers stopping at the edge of glinting hair. Her words stop in her throat. She feels the hard lump and swallows against it. 

Clearly the blonde cast a spell to repel the rain as she remains dry amidst the quiet storm. Bright yellow sleeveless shirt with pastel colored bobbles along the hem. The chintz purple pants remain dry. Fat drops splash on her own cheeks and eyes and she blinks against it. A hum and gentle hand take the fingers, leading her to the house.

Looking up, the house still has its scars. Wind chimes tinkle softly from all around as the wind picks up. Glass, wood, iron bars ring out and catch the morning light in spite of the summer shower. A grumpy Crookshanks looks out from under a bush.

The door opens. Silvery hair and a curious smile. There's the warm scent of tea and scones and Hermione leans into it. Light filters in through the cracked windows and the air is crisp without being humid. This feels safe. Familiar, not quite haunted.

New editions of The Quibbler are everywhere around the living room. The bookshelves are packed, some still broken, shelves angled akimbo. It's been busy the past few months with the Ministry launching a new campaign of inclusion. [What does this mean for heliopaths and snorkcacks?] Splashes across the cover. There is a byline of a relatively new elf reporter that she's been following, Wobleman Wise. 

Xenophilius is in Canada, he is following up on an article and Luna is looking after the place. He's chatting with an ambassador on recent expeditions to discover floprawns, it's explained. 

Large eyes turn back from the stove and trace her features. The pot is taken from the heat and placed aside. "Here," the blonde says, hands sliding the bookbag down. It's placed gently on the floor and she realizes her clothes are dripping all over the floor.

Four years. They'd been sending owls back and forth since graduation, but she hadn't seen her since. It's a relief that she is here, present. Hermione reaches out again, palm against her chest. Solid. Real.

Luna is so light. They're both built similarly, yet, she always seems so slight. The blonde pushes her hand harder into her chest and steps closer. A shiver runs up her spine. 

"I'm sorry for getting the floor wet." They're the first words Hermione has spoken. The hardness edges out again, pulling her focus to practiced politeness. She wants to pull her hand away, embarrassed, but doesn't. "I can clean it up." 

Another curious smile. "I can clean things up," and then a soft "Would you rather dry your clothes or change out of them?"

The clothes are heavy and Hermione wants the sensation of peeling them away from her skin. Magic is impersonal at times. Taking a small breath, she grasps the slim hand and pulls it to the front of her button up.

"Will you help?" A pause. "Please?"

Large eyes move downward to track her fingers. Crookshanks mrows angrily outside and his claws scrape the door. 

A wand is flicked from behind a blonde's ear and the door opens for him to come in before closing. There's a whoosh and he's suddenly dry, too. He circles, as if questioning the new magic on his fur. Hermione doesn't think anyone else has ever touched him with their magic. He shakes, offended, and trots off to the living room, clearly on a mission.

The wand is twisted into a messy blonde knot at the top of her head before she turns back. 

"I haven't noticed any wrackspurts about your hair, have you been using the potion I sent?" Her hands have gotten back to work and have undone the shirt and the light feel of fabric is pulled away. 

Hermione nods. In spite of herself and better judgement, she found the conditioner does wonders for her scalp and hair and has been using it twice a week, as prescribed. Besides, it has a lovely raspberry lavender scent. She closes her eyes and sighs at the soft peeling of the shirt. The wet emerald cotton slaps wetly to the floor. The air is new against her shoulders. The jeans are tougher - unbuttoning takes a little more work. Wet denim is never cooperative, but they get unzipped and Luna steps closer, her body warming the air and brushing against Hermione's. 

She sighs as hands slide under the waistband and jeans are pulled and shoved down incrementally. Unable to keep the underwear from following, they are stripped with the jeans. Her body is jostled at the push and pull and she let's it jostle her mind with nothingness. Another sigh escapes her lips. 

A short and soft command to lift her feet and the pants slop atop the shirt. In her bra, Hermione opens her eyes as the blonde stands up carefully. Blue-grey eyes hold Hermione's gaze as she shifts to the side and undoes the clasp in the back. It springs away from her torso and hangs loosely. It's removed and also drops to the floor.

"The rings of your hair are so tight when wet, like a pygmy hornblock. Shall I dry it?" Her voice moves over the bare shoulder and across her neck and cheek, the air whispers against her.

Hermione shakes her head. She wants to feel the world on her body, afraid that she'll stop feeling if she takes away the natural order. The least she can do is feel the world around her.

The blonde stays close, hands reaching gingerly to hold her damp fingers before pulling her closer until she's shuffled into an embrace, hands around the slim waist. Sliding her hands up Hermione's bare back, she squeezes gently and the seams of the tank top and pants scratch against her naked skin as the rain picks up and it grows dimmer outside. 

There's the sound of an Irish lyric in the blonde's throat, her lips vibrating through the damp tawny hair. When did she start humming? Hermione isn't sure when it started, only vaguely realizes it's been drifting about them.

* * *

There's a blank canvas set up on a small easel in the corner of the room. When did that appear? Her pack is next to the door and it's dark out, now. She fell asleep, she realizes, as she sits on the bed. Luna had guided her to the room after the hug and handed her a history book plucked from the air after another flick of a wand. Clothes were given to her and she put them on before climbing into the sheets.

Hanging enchanted lanterns dangle along one wall and brighten as she stretches. There's a few sounds from the kitchen and she smells a soup of some kind. Luna leans onto a counter, nose in a muggle field guide for Canadian wildlife. 

"Surely you haven't given up on nargles" she motions to the book.

A wry quirk of her lips and the blonde lifts the lid of a pot. Steam and warm smells of tomato and carrots and seasoning waft out. [That's new] she thinks of the smile. 

The pale eyes turn back to the brunette. "There is more overlap with muggle wildlife as humans develop more land. More and more magical creatures are pushed into smaller habitats."

Hermione presses her lips together. She is very aware of this. Two years ago, she'd been working with an inter-departmental initiative on cross-country protective habitats and sanctuaries for muggle and magical wildlife. The measure was approved, but oversight was stripped and portions of the legislation were picked apart, effectively gutting it. She'd spent two years working with local muggle and magical governments to enact the measures on local levels. It had been arduous politicking and relatively successful. More than once she'd had to leave meetings with her temper barely corralled. She'd scratch out angry rants about blowhard officials and send them to Ginny, who she knew would send back clever and witty retorts. Other times, she'd take the floo and if Ginny was out from practice and home, they'd go out for drinks or a dance or a walk through the park near Ginny and Harry's flat. 

Harry sent congratulatory owls whenever local measures passed, and it warmed Hermione to know he also followed up on her work, even if they weren't living nearby each other anymore. She honestly was surprised at the first few owls - the measures weren't actively reported on - she didn't know how he knew about each success, but she never questioned it. But now that she was thinking of it...

"Do you still talk to Harry?"

Nodding, Luna smiles "Harry stops by when he's in the area and he sends owls from time to time. Did you know he's seen nargles in the southern region of the Tanami Desert? Said he couldn't get a stunning spell off quick enough, but he tried." The lid is back in place after a series and adjusted seasoning. "He must have forgotten to clean-sweep his luggage like I advised. Nargles aren't endemic to that region."

The blonde smiles and looks over Hermione's shoulder and there's a glint in her eyes that she's never seen before. ...Is Luna pulling her leg?

"Knowing Harry," Hermione drily retorts, pulling back her hair and tying it up "he has infested every port with the bloody things."

A wide smile splits Luna's face. How much did she now believe? "He can be quite careless with nargles," she supplies, turning back to the pot and stirring, before deciding it's ready to come off the heat. Opening a small fridge that's been rigged using magical power (as suggested by Hermione when Luna had mentioned in an owl that storing potions that require cooler temperatures was becoming troublesome), she pulls out a large bowl on the bottom shelf, below a number of vials.

"This fridge is quite delightful," comes the happy remark. Tendrils of silvery hair fall around her face and her cheeks are pink. Setting the bowl of salad on the island, her eyes move over Hermione's face. "Muggles have such innovative designs." 

* * *

Hermione has been sketching and painting for weeks; stones in the garden, stones in the brook beyond the backyard. Then windows. Then small things in the house: bowls, the lanterns above her bed, Crookshanks in the window with face smashed against the frame. Luna settled into the squashy armchair with another field guide, humming. 

She's in the living room with the easel and Luna comes in from the garden. "Neville sends his regards" she airily reports as she sifts through letters. She drops Hermione's onto the island. 

They've developed an unspoken routine again. It hasn't been asked or said how long Hermione intends to stay, but neither has indicated an interest in changing her proximity. 

Sometimes, on days where she's feeling more like her old self, she wants the blonde to ask her questions, to ask about why she is there. Hermione doesn't know, but she wants to know, wants the blonde to question her. But Luna smiles, knowing and unknowing. And occasionally her own eyes get cloudy and on those days, the brunette follows her along the footpaths, reaches for her hand, braids the long hair in the evening when they're reading on the couch.

They've decided Saturdays are for working in the garden, Tuesdays are house cleaning (Luna seems to be okay with a little dust), Wednesdays are when they go to the local market. Hermione makes most breakfasts, she likes being up and getting on with things. They share dinner making duties. Compared to muggle life, cooking and cleaning is a breeze.

They occasionally share a bed, but neither speak of it when Hermione finds herself anxiously at a doorway or by Luna's side or when Luna wanders to the couch and lays her head in Hermione's lap.

* * *

It's been over a month and she's finishing a painting of the bushes on the side of the round home. The warm air drifts around her and she hears the pop of someone disapparating. Luna must be back. 

This is confirmed when she hears the sound of the woman inside, humming to herself. She feels a sense of peace at her return. Crookshanks hops from his sunbathing and trots to a window where he springs inside. He has taken to Luna and Hermione is finding it difficult not to feel jealous. She thinks of when Luna mentioned he would be great for keeping nargles off the patio of her flat in London. 

The idea of Crookshanks being in Luna's flat hurts Hermione and she doesn't hear the approach of the blonde.

"Are wrackspurts making things fuzzy?" 

Blinking, Hermione takes a breath and looks around. Her wrist aches from holding it in place. The afternoon sun is lower. How much time did she lose this time? "Just lost in thought," she murmurs. 

* * *

"In the fall, I am taking the train to London for a conference," the blonde states at the crease of a book in her lap. 

The hand stops filling in the sketch of Luna in the garden dirt. Hermione knows this is the yearly conference held on sustainable magical practices and she's been thinking of going, even if she's not with the ministry anymore. Hermione imagines this conference as a deadline. The hollowness in her chest pushes against her ribs and she takes a careful breath. 

"That's nice," she manages. 

Luna turns her gaze from the book and looks at her. Her eyes are curious and she smiles. 


End file.
